


Relief

by nea_writes



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Exorcist!Red, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 10:51:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7681498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nea_writes/pseuds/nea_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Red was picked up by the Order, and is subjected to their inhumane experiments in their efforts to raise his synchro rate. After an attempt that almost has him become a Fallen, Cross offers <strike>decides</strike> to take him away.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>He hates this. He hates having his freedom of choice being taken away from him. He hates feeling like he has no control over what happens to him and his body. The only freedom it truly feels like he has is over the state of his mind, and even now this man wants to change that, too.</p>
<p>And still, even with all that hate, going with this bastard is better than staying behind and letting Central do the job instead. At least with Cross he is free to talk and move. The lesser of two horrors, he supposes</p>
<p>
  <em>Based off WhyPie's Exorcist!Red AU</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relief

**Author's Note:**

> Based off [WhyPie's tumblr's Exorcist!Red AU](http://m0rkl.tumblr.com/tagged/exorcist%21Red)

Red doesn’t bother to hide his scowl as Kanda stalks into the training room, followed on his heels by Lenalee. He focuses on his forms, breathing out deeply through his nose. Unbidden, his mind rears back the General who’d accosted him, and he loses all sense of relaxation.

Cursing beneath his breath, Red shifts into the next stance, willing his breathing even. Thinking about that sorry waste of space wouldn’t do him any good.

“Oi,” Kanda calls, and Red mourns the loss of what little concentration he’d had.

“What,” Red hisses. “Bakanda.”

“Moyashi, you’re asking for it,” Kanda snaps, eager to be belligerent, and Red wonders why he’s picked a fight with him. Kanda stands to the side of his training mat, Lenalee hovering at his shoulders with her eyes dark and wide and scared. Red looks away. He knows she still fears that the moment she’s alone, someone will whisk her away again.

“What do you even want Kanda?” Red finally asks, easing out of his stance and stretching his back until it gives a satisfying pop. His rude behavior makes Kanda scowl, and that’s always a good thing in his book.

Kanda scuffles his strange shoes. They’re similar to Reds, but point up at the ends. Lenalee likes to wear them too, and when she’d caught him looking at them, she’d merely said it reminded her of her brother.

“…that squirrel faced man is looking for you,” Kanda says at last, glaring a whole into the mat. Red stiffens. He remembers the General’s words, and darts a wary glance around. Kanda snorts. “None of them are coming yet. I overheard them.”

Red can always appreciate that Kanda is a boy of few words. Straight to the point, clean and easy. Red nods his thanks, smiling when Kanda’s scowl deepens. Lenalee’s surely suffocating clinginess makes more sense now, too.

He looks down at his wrinkled and red hand. Ever since he almost became a Fallen, the hand has remained largely immobile. He can’t fight with it.

Minute tasks, like picking up a fork or grasping a piece of paper are impossible, though he can grab a doorknob and twist it if he focuses enough. It’s almost as if all his nerves have a heavy blanket on them, numb. He sees what’s touching his hand, but he can’t actually feel it. The hate within him burns hotter.

It was one thing to have had a paralyzed arm before, but now that it had started working, having it torn away from him is even more unbearable. He thinks of Cross’… statement. It hadn’t been an offer or even a request, much to the boy’s smarting pride. Simply a declaration of fact.

_You’re going with me._

Red isn’t stupid enough to think it’s because Cross pities him and offered the escape from the Order’s horrendous experiments. If that were the case, he would’ve smuggled Lenalee away, or maybe even Kanda, because loathe as Red is to admit it, in the state he is now even Kanda is a better option.

“What are you going to do?” Kanda asks, interrupting Red’s thoughts. Red shuffles, adjusting his wrinkled arm so it’s in some semblance of normality. Lenalee and Kanda’s face grow pinched at the action and Red sighs.

“Nothing,” Red says, running his fingers up and through his hair to remove the tie. Kanda scowls when he realizes it’s one of his. Or maybe at his lie. It’s always Kanda who sees through Red, or maybe he just doesn’t care to pretend and indulge Red in his lies. Either way, it’s completely annoying.

“What?” Red demands, eager to be moving already.

“I hate you,” Kanda states, and Red laughs.

“Yeah? You and the entire world does, you’re no special cookie,” Red sneers, and that dangerous elation that wells within him is sick, he knows, but he can’t help feeling on top of the world when he gets a rise from others, Kanda especially.

“Fuck you!” Kanda snaps so violently, Lenalee rears back.

“Fuck you, too,” Red says, sitting at the edge of his mat to pull his shoes back on. He stands when he’s done, forcing Kanda to take a step back. He smiles at Lenalee and turns to leave.

They follow him, with Kanda demanding irately, “Where are you going?”

“To do nothing,” Red says, knowing full well it’ll aggravate him.

It does. “I hate you so much,” Kanda says bitterly, and Red laughs again because messing with Kanda is always so easy.

They trail him from the training room, and blessed Lenalee takes the lead from there. Red punches Kanda in the arm when he snorts - they all know he can’t tell North from South and barely up from down. She takes them to Red’s room and let’s herself in.

Red’s heart jumps into her throat when she screams, and both he and Kanda are rushing in after her.

There, sitting on his bed with a cup of wine in hand, is that damn General.

“Son of a bitch,” Red groans and Cross laughs.

“What a filthy mouth,” the General remarks, and Red glares at him.

“Does anyone give a shit?” Red asks tartly, and the General laughs, his hair shaking with it. It doesn’t escape Red’s notice that the wine remains undisturbed in its cup, and he shivers at the level of minute control the man has over his hands. He becomes painfully aware of his dull arm again.

“Oh, I’m going to enjoy beating that attitude out of you,” Cross finally says, taking a sip from his cup. “You should never speak that way in front of a woman.”

Red snorts, crossing to step in front of Lenalee and properly face the lounging asshole on his bed. “Yeah? You’ll just be like all the others - go ahead and try. Ain’t nothing gonna make me be anyone but what I am.”

Cross is quiet for a moment, merely studying him, and Red ignores him. He knows what the General is trying to do, but Red wasn’t lying. There are many who have done far worse than sit on his bed and insult him in their efforts to change him.

He wants to shower, but with the General and Lenalee there, he can’t, so he stays glaring at the General in front of Lenalee and Kanda.

“Yes,” Cross says, and Red hates that the sudden sound of his voice makes him jump in his skin. “That’s a good attitude to have, boy. You’ll need that.” Cross looks at Lenalee and Kanda then, and says, “Hey, you. Uh… Chan or whatever. Go get me some wine.”

Lenalee glowers. “It’s Lee,” she says. Cross laughs.

“I don’t care. Maybe in ten years I might.” Kanda glares even as the insinuation flies over Lenalee’s head. “You go with her too, Chin.” He adds, nodding towards Kanda, whose face flushes with indignant anger. “Go,” the General says, and Red can hear the part demand, part warning, and entire danger promised in it. Kanda stays rooted for a moment, and even Red can feel the waves of anger coming off of him. He glares at Red, then turns sharply on his heel to leave, Lenalee following him.

Cross reaches for the bottle on the floor and tips more wine into his cup. Red scowls. He hates liquor - any and all forms of it, and the hate almost extends to the people who drink it. When Cross tips the cup towards Red and asks, “Want some?” Red almost wants to take the cup and shatter it over his head. Cross grins.

“Well?” Red demands. His shoulders shift to cross his arms, but when his left one won’t obey the action it only results in an awkward jerk of his right arm. He knows Cross notices, and he prays the General won’t call him out on it.

“We’re leaving,” Cross says to Reds relief, then confusion when he processes the General’s words. “Pack your shit and meet me downstairs.” Cross stands, in the same motion sweeping down to grasp the neck of the wine bottle.

“Why should I?” Red asks, stubbornly staying still. “I don’t have a single damn reason to go with you.”

Cross seems to lose all humor. “You do, boy, and you know it. I don’t have time for games. Grab your things and go, or I’ll haul you out of here.” Red tracks Cross’ free hand as it fingers the tiny coffin hanging from his neck.

Red doesn’t know what that coffin entails or promises, but he wants nothing to do with the dead, and in the state he’s in, the General will have no trouble carrying out his ultimatum.

Red scowls and looks away, hating the smart of tears burning in his eyes.

He hates this. He hates having his freedom of choice being taken away from him. He hates feeling like he has no control over what happens to him and his body. The only freedom it truly feels like he has is over the state of his mind, and even now this man wants to change that, too.

And still, even with all that hate, going with this bastard is better than staying behind and letting Central do the job instead. At least with Cross he is free to talk and move. The lesser of two horrors, he supposes.

“…Fine.”

“Good,” Cross leers, than leaves his room without another word. Red takes the cup left behind and shatters it against his wall.

* * *

Red finds Kanda first. Or, rather, his rooms. Oh well. The perpetually angry boy should be happy he found any part of Kanda at all. He leaves the sloppily written letter under Kanda’s pillow, knowing he’ll find it easily. He won’t leave one for Lenalee. He’s wasted enough time as it is.

Despite getting lost easily, Red at least knows how to go down from up, and so after stairwell after stairwell, it’s with relief that he makes it to the ground floor. There’s only one more stairwell from there, and that leads directly to the river running through the mountain the Order is perched on.

The General is waiting, and a strange golden golem is flittering around his head, looking for all the world like it’s scolding him with its strange _‘graa! graa!’_ sounds. The General looks up as soon as Red steps off the stairs, dropping his cigarette and snuffing it out with his toe. “You took forever,” Cross scolds, and Red refuses to apologize or explain. He just shrugs, and crosses the small platform to set his suitcase in the waiting gondola. He sits down first, and Cross snorts with laughter.

“What?” Red demands, flushing with embarrassment.

“Get your ass over there,” the General says, jerking his chin to point at the end of the gondola a finder normally stands at. Red stares at him, aghast.

Red is little - and damn it, does that frustrate him - and he’s never steered a gondola before. Cross seems to read his mind, because he narrows his eye. “Do it.”

Scowling, Red carefully walks across the short boat to take his post at steering, and almost ends up falling into the placid lake as the General carelessly steps in, rocking the boat.

“Damn you!” Red shouts, fingers on his useful hand twitching around the oar with the urge to break it over the General’s head.

“Let’s get going. We’re late enough as it is.”

Red doesn’t bother asking where they’re going and what they’re late for, already knowing the General won’t tell him. He struggles with the rod, pushing and forcing the boat off so quickly the General swings his foot into Red’s shin.

“Be gentler!” Cross instructs, and Red wants to curse him so badly as his shin smarts and his shoulder contorts oddly to accommodate the steer.

“Fuck you,” Red says, and yelps when the General kicks him the same spot.

“Mind your language.” Cross settles into his seat, taking out another stick of nicotine, and Red deeply considers the merits of cap-sizing the boat. He decides against only because Central might have caught wind of his disappearance already. He’s no fool. It’s not a coincidence that the General was waiting for him in his rooms. So instead of reaming Cross with the oar, he steers the boat more carefully.

The golden golem that’s been fiddling round Cross’ head flitters over to Red. Red scowls at it, wanting to shove it away but with one useful hand steering and the other useless, he’s left to just glaring at it.

It bobs up and down and around Red before bonking him straight in the head. Red shouts, his wretched hand twitching with an aborted action bred of reflex.

“That’s Timcanpy,” Cross says, breathing out smoke. “He’s my golem.”

“What the hell does it want?” Red asks, eyes crossing as he tries to spy the golem resting on his head. He shakes it vigorously, and the golem only hits him again in reprimand before settling down in his red hair once more. “Goddammit!” Red curses, frustrated, and the golem’s tail sweeps forward and over his nose. He snuffles at the tickling sensation and sneezes, and he can almost feel the tiny golem snickering.

“Tim, beat that language out of him until he knows better,” Cross commands, taking another drag on his cigarette. Tim responds by shifting his tail over Red’s nose again, and the boy snorts at the strange feeling.

“I’m going to sneeze,” Red swears, “and you’re going to fall off my head and into the water and I’m not going to save you.”

For something with no face or mouth, it sure does a good job at laughing at him. Cross does too, for that matter, bending over with shaking shoulders as he holds the cigarette out over the water.

“Oh, I might actually enjoy this,” Cross says after his fit. Red ignores him.

It’s only the afternoon, but it feels like it’s been forever since that morning. His stomach growls fiercely, reminding him that he hasn’t had his afternoon meal – _er_ – snack yet.

Cross looks at him, face blank. “I forgot what being a parasite type means,” Cross mutters. “Damn. Kid, you’re earning your own food. I’m not wrecking up a debt for you.”

Red curses under his breath. You would think with a dull arm - and therefore being unable to use his Innocence - he wouldn’t have to eat the worth of a small fortune, but, like all things in his life, it just doesn’t work that way. Too easy for him, Red thinks, and God knows he’s not meant to have it easy.

Cross puts his cigarette out on the edge of the boat, then tosses it inside. He spends the rest of the agonizing ride watching Red intently. It unnerves Red, but like he said earlier. Others have done much worse in their efforts to unravel and ruin him. This man, who’s sat on his bed and blown smoke in his face, hasn’t got to him yet.

Won’t get to him, he thinks. Swears. Tim nuzzles his head, shifting hairs, and Red idly realizes he hadn’t grabbed a hair tie. The too long strands brush his shoulders, chunky and thick and coarse when compared to Kanda’s and Lenalee’s slithery smooth inky hair.

By the time they reach the end and dock, Cross has no mercy for Red’s aching shoulders. He hauls the kid off by the scruff of his neck, almost choking Red in his rush. They don’t quite rush but sure as hell don’t take their time to reach the train station, and Red abundantly curses Cross’ very long legs and very tall height.

It’s only when he’s sitting in the tiny booth Cross secured with a dangerous gleam in his eye, said General sitting across him and flipping through a notebook, that Red suddenly feels the enormity of what he’s done.

He’s gone. No more midnight experiments and daily training and overwhelming guilt and horror of becoming a Fallen. They can’t touch him anymore.

“Kid,” Cross calls, and Red wonders if he even knows his name. “Write something.”

“What?” Red asks, completely confused. The hell does he want?

“I won’t repeat myself,” Cross says, and holds a plain notebook and pencil out. Hesitantly, Red takes it.

“What do I write?” He asks, unnerved by the unusual request.

“Whatever you want, the hell do I care?”

_Then why do you want me to write?_ Red thinks viciously, but he sets pen to paper, then hesitates. He’s never really had reason to write, aside from his mission reports though more often than not a Finder will complete it for him, and even then he hasn’t had to write one since his arm became a fucking useless mess.

Good thing he can use his right. He sets his wrinkled red hand on part of the notebook to hold it steady across his knees, grimacing at the ugly display of immobility the slightly curled fingers show, then sets to writing on the page. Very carefully, even through the train’s continuous shaking, he scratches out his message.

Suppressing a grin, he turns the book over to Cross, who admires his work.

“Funny. Do it again.”

Red’s grin drops. “What?”

“What did I say about repeating myself? Are you useless _and_ deaf?”

Angry and embarrassed, Red snatches the proffered book again, arranges his arm over it once more, and writes the letters again. He hands it over.

“Again.”

“And what the fuck for?” Red snaps, frustrated.

“It looks like shit,” Cross says, and Red flushes to the very roots of his hair.

“Are you blind?” Red demands. “We’re on a damn train, of course it looks like shit!”

“And I don’t care. Write it again.”

Scowling fiercely, Red sets to the task. Over and over and over, even into the inn they stay at for the night three towns over, he writes:

_Go to hell._

The only reason he stops is because he slumps over the book, dead asleep and cheek imprinting with the smudged remains of a page filled with curses.

Cross has him fill five more pages before he deems that sentence acceptable, then has him copy out an entire book in the exact same penmanship.

Red hates him. So much.

At the end, Red has the neatest writing he’s ever even seen in his life, but his right hand cramps like a little bitch and his left is still useless. When Cross has him begin writing with his left, Red wonders if leaving the Order really was the wisest decision.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly trying to figure out Red was harder than I thought. It won’t be until later that he realizes what Cross was trying to do, though he still won’t forgive him for it. Anyways! My take on how Cross smuggled Red out of Headquarters P:


End file.
